


lass mich nicht los

by VivianCavanaugh



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Gay Panic, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Masturbation, Newton Geiszler is a Mess, Saving the World, i love him so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivianCavanaugh/pseuds/VivianCavanaugh
Summary: “Hermann, baby, honey, you're the Gottlieb to my Geiszler”“That shit doesn't make any sense, Newt”
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Kudos: 6





	lass mich nicht los

“Hermann, baby, honey, you're the Gottlieb to my Geiszler”

“That shit doesn't make any sense, Newt”

But it did. It made perfect sense, Gott, Hermann. What they were to each other was beyond the Drift, was before and after their minds mashed into each other like boiled potatoes with milk and butter and Newt hasn't eaten _Kartoffelpüree_ in a goddamn decade and it's not fair.

Since when does Hermann swear, anyway? Called him Newt, even. That didn't register at that moment but now that he's in bed touching his cock, well, this does _things_ to him. His voice, curling around his name and graciously pronouncing the word “shit”, not even _scheiße_ , which Newt thought he might have heard once or twice since he's met the man; no, he said it in English and it sounded unbelievably way too erotic.

He strokes himself slowly. It feels unnatural. He's got time now, doesn't have to sneak out from the lab in their 10 minute lunch-except-it's-dinner-or-breakfast-or-midnight-snack break when he thinks he's about to burst from not wanking for a week, do the deed in half a minute to have time to eat, and _subtly_ watch his colleague to make sure he's eating too. So, yeah, he's got time now, and speaking of Hermann, man, is he _hot._ Like greasy-hair, frog-lips, grandpa-clothes _hot._ Like get-your-hand-on-my-dick-please _hot._

Speaking of his dick, it's rock hard, his musings along with the weird slow movements got him in the zone, so he speeds up, thinks about tracing kaiju patterns on Hermann's arms, and comes.

So much has happened in the past few days, but, to be honest, so much has happened in the last decade, give or take a couple years. He can barely remember himself ten years ago, beyond his brief morphine addiction (he loved to hate the way it muted his brain) and altogether rage against anyone and everyone who wasn't as smart as him. But how smart was he, really? He wasn't bookish. He either read in an all-night frenzy or he couldn't get through the first page; he had a hard time memorising most things, he didn't have a photographic memory – ain't that boy genius? He just felt so out of place, like on a whole other planet, like he was the only member in a cult he alone had started. He remembers writing to Hermann and thinking he was The One. The One to join him or die, The One to warm him up in winter, The One to make his thoughts electric. Turns out, Hermann would rather die, would absolutely leave him in the cold, would definitely power up his brain to the point of frying it. For whatever reason, he was _perfect_.

Newt used to paint his nails black and listen to MCR. He moved on to old school rock and stopped painting his nails only when he reached the point where he barely had time to piss in peace. One time, after he played 'Everytime We Touch' by Cascada a hundred times, Hermann threw every nail polish except one (he _loved_ him, really) at him, barely smirking when they shattered and ruined two of his experiments. He retaliated by drawing dicks on Hermann's blackboards. When Hermann saw them, he looked Newt dead in the eye and said “I had no idea you're that sexually frustrated, Geiszler. Perhaps we ought to remedy that” and Newt, the dumb dumb _dumb_ shit he was, took it the wrongest way possible and threw an intestine at him.

The point of remembering was to shake off the feeling that he 'ought to' be doing something important. Capital-i Important. Capital-him. Capital-Hermann. The truth is, what he saw in the Drift was more than he could handle, and he knows this better than he knows the cellular structure of kaiju, and he loves the cellular structure of kaiju more that he's loved anything, ever. What Hermann felt for him was nothing like his adoration for the monsters that almost ended the world, was nothing like the shivers he got when he saw Otachi get up close and personal, was nothing like his more _interesting_ sex dreams involving alien dick up his ass; was everything like it. Like, Hermann got him and didn't. He wasn't a missing piece, but he wasn't redundant either. And he _something_ Newt.  
  
He must have fallen asleep, because he blinks into awareness feeling all fuzzy and like something had crawled in his mouth and died. Which was entirely possible, being in the Shatterdome, again, guys, not the cleanest place. Not that he'd complain, with him being a human tornado and his lab a permanent biological hazard.  
  
He heads for the showers, brushes his teeth and busies himself (not really) with washing every inch of his body, scrubbing thoroughly but gently at his tattooed skin and thinks, I gotta have them retouched. Wipes himself and dresses for a day off (what even was that?) and thinks, I gotta get a new one, Otachi? Baby Kodachi? Looks at his scarlet eye in the mirror and thinks, Herman's got this too. Sighs, because he's been avoiding him since they cancelled the apocalypse, and he's past the point when he could come up with an excuse that didn't involve the agonising truth that he was just very emotional and could not trust himself to make a rational decision that included, like, marriage; because he _knows_ that if he allows himself real attachment, it will be permanent. There's no other way. A decade of his life, and it was either save the world, or die trying, but it was either loathe Dr. Gottlieb like there's no tomorrow, or love him like there _is_ a tomorrow.

Scary stuff.

He makes his way to the canteen, which seems larger now that it's almost deserted. He spots two techs on the far right, waves at them, smiling. They wave back, and they seem fine. They're alive.

He grabs a lot of food, and some shitty tea because he's still exhausted and would really like to sleep some more. Getting to his room proves to be more difficult than he'd calculated, trays full and body weak, and as he finally enters the room he realises how dirty the sheets are, how smelly the room is, how much rubbish the floor is covered in, and how unhygienic keeping his clothes anywhere but the closet. Funny, that's not like himself at all. He supposes cleaning is better than anything else he could be doing, with the lab closed and strict orders from above (is there an above anymore?) to take a few days off. He cleans around while taking mouthfuls of toast, eggs, and whatever else. The food doesn't really register; all that matters is getting enough energy to function, maybe to not feel every joint in his body aching.  
  
An hour or so later he settles, starts watching every kaiju film he can get his hands on. Thinking is tiring. Watching Godzilla is as entertaining now as it was the first twenty times. It was by the time he saw it for the tenth time that the first kaiju attack occurred and now it's over. Twenty-first. They were his life, for fuck's sake.

Twenty-first, huh? Maybe he'll find a way to continue his research. Gather all his samples and disappear. Run away? More like a strategic retreat. Because it's over and he has no place anymore. He's starting to panic.

_Huh._

**Author's Note:**

> title shamelessly stolen from the song Maschin by Bilderbuch  
> might continue but might also not  
> ✌️


End file.
